


Little Things

by TheNiftyNarwhal



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Peter Pan Fusion, Baby Harry Styles, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Harry Styles, Kid Fic, OT5 Friendship (One Direction), One Direction Hiatus, Other, Post-Zayn One Direction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27782287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheNiftyNarwhal/pseuds/TheNiftyNarwhal
Summary: Soft 1D related one shots. I have them on Wattpad, but I figured I'd post them here, too.
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Harry can't sleep♡

Harry grabs his pillow once more and clutches it to his chest, bending his knees and bringing them to press into the cushion, pushing his feet up against the bottom of the bunk above him. He's careful not to push too hard. His goal isn't to wake up Niall up above him, he's just antsy and tired of looking for comfortable positions in the cramped bunk that always feels smaller when he's at war with his insomnia.

He brings his long legs down against the springy mattress with a thud and let's his arms fall limply at his sides, his pillow still resting on his bare chest, never one for wearing pajamas to bed.

He feels so hopeless, he's been in this game of tug-of-war with his consciousness for close to four hours now and he's so tired of winning.

He wants to fall asleep.

He wants to be able to let his tired brain cells finally get the rest they need.

The idea of dealing with tomorrow's busy schedule, with a smiling face and perfect manners, without any of the sweet relief and rejuvenation slumber brings a person, is truly horrible. It's now made the bubble of anxiety in his heart grow bigger, and he's afraid that tomorrow will be the day he bursts open if he doesn't drift away soon.

He claws at his pretty face in frustration, tears beginning to leak from his leafy green eyes, not that it even matters what color they are, since he can't see them and no one else is awake to witness the pathetic spectacle of young Mr. Harry Styles crying like a baby because no matter how he tries, he simply can not fall asleep.

He's a big lad.

He's been the man of his mother's house since he was all of about a decade old.

Right now, though, he doesn't feel like those things.

In this moment, in the darkness of the slumbering tour bus, where everyone else is snoring peacefully around him and he's stranded on this island of sleeplessness whilst the others swim effortlessly in their dreams, he's just a baby.

He's a baby who desperately wants to be held by his mum.

He wants to be cuddled to sleep, because, at this point, he's tried everything else. 

There's nobody in the bus that he wants to wake up right now, he doesn't want to be rude.

After all, they have as long a day as he has tomorrow.

He closes his eyes once more and tries to do that thing the YouTube tutorial narrator said was a "foolproof" method of relaxing into sleep.

He breathes deeply and tries to convince every part of his body that it is okay, they can go whenever they so choose. However, if they'd be so kind as to fall asleep right now, while he's still got a fighting chance at at least three hours of relief, he'd be so grateful.

It doesn't work, though.

He breathes deeply.

He grabs the pillow to catch the frustrated sob that falls from his lips because he's just done, his fingers squeeze deeply and he's shaking so badly.

He's tired of trying to silently struggle through it, and part of him hopes that maybe, just maybe, one of the crew or one of his bandmates will hear him.

He's just so tired that he's become a bit selfish.

He doesn't really know what he expects any of them to do, but he knows that he'd welcome any and all suggestions. 

His sleepytime tea was an absolute failure and don't even mention the word melatonin to him, meditation is a joke and he'd much prefer it if no one ever said the words "breathe deeply to the count of six" to him again.

All the methods he's found, thus far, have been complete and utter frauds.

He whimpers again, a high-pitched broken sound that is as close as he can get to a scream through the cottony depths of his pillow.

Suddenly, he hears the curtain that blockades him into his bunk, separating him from everyone else, slide open, and the pillow is yanked away from his hands.

A thickly accented, "Hey, now," falls on his ears as two hands slip into his armpits and pull him up gently, scooting his slinky body to the edge of his mattress,"Come here, lovey."

It's Louis' voice and Harry's never been so glad to see his best friend, even if it is the middle of the night and he's been found naked and sobbing like the toddler he apparently is.

"Boobear," Harry sobs, wrapping his arms around the Doncaster man's neck.

"Shhhh........" Louis shushes the crying boy, stopping for a moment to grab Harry's purple duvet and wrap it tightly around his bottom half, so that he's not fully exposed should any of the others wake up.

He squishes one arm between the mattress and Harry's bottom and the other under his back, hoisting him up bridal style as if he was one of his baby siblings back home.

Harry's too far gone to even protest the point that he's seventeen-year-old and just a wee bit taller than Louis, despite the fact the smaller man held his own well and could manhandle the Cheshire lad any day of the week.

Not that he would ever bruise anything so delicate as Harry.

He brings them both into the more open part of the tourbus, away from their sleeping bandmates and sets himself on the sofa in the little gaming spot.

He maneuvers Harry, who's already begun to calm down and is resting his bushy head against his collarbone, hiccuping slightly and sniffling, but his crying having ceased.

"What's the problem?" Louis asks tenderly, stroking the sweaty little curls that have laid siege to Harry's brow.

Harry takes a deep breath, knowing he's about to sound like such a tenderfoot but not even caring,"Wanted cuddled, Louis."he whimpers and the older man smiles at the little ladies' man uttering such a defenseless statement.

He presses a kiss into the chocolate crown of Harry's curls, breathing in the scent of his banana scented shampoo and smiling at the fragility that is Harry Styles,"Missing your Mumma a bit, perhaps?"

Harry nods, more tears slipping down over his strong cheekbones and landing atop his cupid's bow, where he carefully slips his tongues out, enjoying the salty taste of his restless misery.

"Couldn't sleep because of it," he whispers, his voice thick with mucus and raspy.

Louis holds the cocooned boy close to his bare chest, the moment so intimate and tender that, if either were caught in this position any other time, it might seem sensual and there would be some very awkward moments in the morning when they wake up and recall, but this is beautifully innocent.

This is just Harry starved for human comfort and touch finding it in the man whose older brother skills were ace. 

His arms tightly gripping Harry's body, never easing away the pressure but making sure he knows just how safe he is.

The Cheshire boy's nose is pressed against Louis' chest and he's nuzzling into it, trying to steal all the affection from the man and, starting to succeed.

"Hush, now, darling," Louis soothes, rocking the boy on his bare knees, his boxers being his only covering.

Harry settles back and immediately starts to breathe deeper and Louis smiles fondly,"Goodnight, Hazza," he whispers sweetly,"Have a good sleep."

He gets a soft little mewl in response, just a low hum laced with contentment as the lad's tired features melt into complete serenity.

He sits there, rocking Harry, long after the boy falls off to sleep, not wanting him to wake should he cease.

After a while, though, his own body feels weak, and the clock is reading just an hour off from the time it's set to ring. 

He settles back against the sofa, Harry's sweaty body keeping him warm as he whimpers from the jostle of Louis scooching backwards to lean against the couch cushions.

Louis closes his eyes to catch forty winks, still clutching Harry tightly in his arms.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

"Lou," Niall shakes Louis' shoulder gently to wake him.

Louis wakes up and looks around anxiously, nearly dropping the arm underneath Harry's neck and letting the poor boy be woken up painfully.

"It's time to get up, Lou," the Irish lad tells him, casting a sympathetic glance between him and Harry's tear stained cheeks and Louis tired face.

"We had a bit of a night,"Louis explains, seeing the questions in Niall's eyes.

"When we gotta leave?" Niall asks, turning his head to Liam, who's walking in, sleepily brushing his teeth. 

Liam looks at Harry, all slumped over and teary, and his heart starts to break, because, they should get him up.

They really ought to.

His sniffling hasn't even ceased yet, though, and he's still got his cheek pressed against Louis' chest. It looks like he's trying to find his heartbeat.

Liam caves in.

"Give him to me," he orders, setting aside his wet toothbrush on the coffee table and kneeling beside Louis' couch.

Louis smirks, because he knew that, however much of a stickler Liam is, Harry will always be the exception to the rules.

He hands over his baby to Liam, who treats him like the fragile China doll he is at the moment, and carries him back to the bunk that had brought him no solace the evening previous.

He lays him inside, completely ignoring the way he gets a bird's eye view of Harry's bottom when he lays him on his side and the duvet falls open.

Harry moans softly and lays on his tummy, sucking his fingers innocently in his sleep. 

Liam smiles and so does Louis because, well, even as big as he was, Harry would always be their baby.


	2. Don't Worry Darling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's quite proud of his Vogue cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically, I was throwing a pity party for Harry Styles.

'Did'you see it, Mum?" Harry excitedly answers the phone.

It's been about four hours since they last spoke, to be honest, but during that time, his appearance in Vogue, a joint secret surprise from he and Gemma, has made it's debut.

His chest has swelled with pride during his little trek through his feed, his timer that had been set for only about ten minutes just gone off, a precaution for his mental health, so that he doesn't get too carried away or hung up on anything negative.

Anne giggles happily on the other line, a sound that has always been familiar to the Cheshire lad and never fails to bring a smile to his lips.

"I saw it, dahling, and I just adore it!"

His cheeks dimple deeply as he grins, twenty six, though he may be, few things make him happier than when his mum praises him.

"I was a wee bit scawed that no one would like it, but everybody seems to love it!"

She laughs and Harry can already picture her deep brown eyes twinkling with warmth and love, the way they always do when she's speaking to her children,"F'couhse they do, love, I'm so proud of you."

Anne's aware of her son's secret anxieties, the fear that makes him need his puffers early in the morning before a shoot or right before a performance on stage. She's been in the receiving end of many a frightened, tearful phone call, begging for her to validate him and trying to make certain that he's doing the right thing.

For him to have taken such an enormous leap, and without her as his crutch to lean on, is a huge feat, in and of, itself.

She leans into the phone as if her little boy is beside her and she's resting her head against him as opposed to the glass screen,"I really couldn't be prouduh, my love."

There's a brief pause, and Anne can tell by the silence that there's something nagging him, even from an ocean away, she can feel the tension starting to creep into him.

"What's wrong, sweethawt?"

"M'just a tiny bit afraid of whot some people awh gonna say is oll," he confesses, and Anne hates the pinch that she feels in her chest because she knows that someone will, in some way, put a damper on her baby's gorgeous achievement.

"Whotevuh they say doesn't define you, dahling," she reminds gently, keeping her tone soothing and calm, hoping it somehow blankets her child with some vestige of security,"I adowuh it, and you have ev'ry reason to be proud and happy."

She hears a deep breath and a heavy sigh as some of his anxiety rolls away, not all of it, she can tell some is lingering beneath his delicate skin, but she's happy for even the slightest lightening of his burden.

"Youh right," he agrees, in a voice that makes it vaguely apparent that he's trying to convince himself she is,"Stiff uppuh lip and all'at, eh?"

"Mmhmm," she hums, and he knows that her lower lips is jutted out into a sympathetic pout as her eyes melt with the kind of indescribable emotion that mothers feel when they know there's something waiting for their children that they have no power over protecting them from,"Just be yohself, my love, it's the best thing you con be."

"Love you, Mummy," he blurts out on instinct, and Anne smiles because her sweet boy has always been such a fountain of affection that she can't understand how anyone could find fault with her angel.

"I love you, too, dahling, and, if you get wuhrried owuh just need a friend, give me a ring," she chides unnecessarily, knowing that he will, anyways, but feeling that in his fragile state he might benefit from the extra assurance," Mummy's always heuh, love."

Harry closes his lids over his vibrant eyes, alternating between fear and excitement with every heartbeat. Talking to his mum has made him feel a bit better about it, but his anxiety still feels extremely present, and his fear of future reviews is growing.

"Why don't you take a wolk, love?" Anne suggests, knowing that there is an inner battle that she can do nothing to fight raging inside her son's mind,"Put youh phone away, and get a spot of sun on youh skin, it'll make you feel loads bettuh."

He nods, and she pulls the phone close once more, as if in a goodbye hug,"I love you, sweethawt, please, don't werry. Bye-bye, nowrh."

"I love you, too, Mummy, I'll coll agin, latuh. Buh-bye."

He hits the red cancel button and wills himself to hit the power on his phone and render it lifeless, nothing he could possibly see on there, right now, is going to be helpful to his mental state.

He slips into his Disney-themed Gucci slippers and takes into careful consideration the downy feel of the plush insides. He and Gemma have always found that when panicking, or, in times of heavy worry, taking into account even the slightest feelings helps to keep one grounded and focused.

He slides a red jacket on over his pale cream colored crop that reveals the lower part of his inked butterfly against his bronzed torso, and steps out the door into the late morning sunshine.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

Brrrrrrringgggg. Brrrrrrrringggg. Brrrrringggggggg.

Anne jolts awake and nearly tumbles from her bed as she reaches for the iPhone resting on the edge of her nightstand.

The yellow glimmering numbers of her alarm clock say 4:00 clearly on the black screen.

The caller ID reads "Baby" in big bold print, an extravagant red heart beside the letters, and suiting the contact's identity well.

She answers immediately, knowing that her angel never calls her this late without good reason,"Allo?"

He's extremely considerate of the time difference between LA and England, usually, never one to be rude and interrupt someone's sleep if he could help it. She knows something's wrong.

"M-mummy?" his voice is ragged and weak, and she can tell he's been crying, his breath is wavering and she's concerned if he's alone or not, because he sounds dangerously near an asthma attack.

"Sweethawt, wot's wrong?" she asks anxiously, her eyes wide as she sets up in bed, pushing her pillow up against the headboard and tucking her pink duvet up over her breasts as if she's hiding them from someone, despite the fact that she's alone in her house as well as clothed in a blue silk pajama set.

She crosses her one arm and steels herself, because she can already tell that she's going to have to be the nonemotional contribution to this call.

"I-I did you see wot she sed about my shoot, Mum?" he answers in question and Anne's eyebrows furrow deeply in anger toward whoever the identity of this "she" is that she's upset her little boy so.

"Who, dahling?" she presses him cautiously, not pushing too hard but wanting the facts before she leaps from the covers and slugs the individual responsible for her baby's tears.

He sniffles,"Some lady, I dunno huh owuh-owuh anythin' but she was bein' awful about my pictuhs in-in the gown an' she jus' kep talkin' 'bout how we need "manly men" an' she sed that people like me wuh jus' wantin' attention an'-an'-"

His voice breaks off and Anne can tell that he's embarrassed and wounded.

How dare someone say such a thing about her child?

"Baby," she begins gently, using the only name that he's answered her to for most of his two decades of life,"You know that she's not right, don't you, love?"

He let's out a painful sob, and she feels a desperate urge to fly to America and swaddle his whole six foot body in her arms right then and there, but she just winces and listens, it's all she can do.

"I was so-so proud an' I know 'at some people like it, but-but-"

"I know, it's easy to get hung up on all the bad tolk, huh?"she supplies for him, knowing his habit to miss the millions of praises that he daily receives in favor of focusing on a few negative criticisms.

He whimpers,"Mum, isshe right, though? Am I weiuhd?"

Anne feels the steam coming from her ears and nostrils at the question, because, never, in a million years, should someone as innocent and kindhearted as her son, have to ask it.

"No, youh absolutely lovely, do you heauh me, I don't cauh whot some lady says, she's prob'ly just jealous, anyways," she rambles, feeling her mind fogging slightly with fury,"By chonce, whot was this lady's name, love?"

His crying has flagged by this point and she can tell that he's looking through his phone for the name,"Iss Candace Owens..?"

Anne nods and jots the name down in her mental contacts, determining that that woman, whether she publicizes it or not, will receive a very strongly worded DM from her as soon as her baby is calmed down.

"She doesn't sound familiuh, I wouldn't werry about it, love," she states carefully,"Chonces auh she'll get a bigguh headache than you will ovuh this thing, the people who love you most, love you when you auh who you wont to be. Did'you like weauhing the gown?"

"Thought i'was pretty an' I thought I looked good in it, t'be honest," he replies mournfully, Anne can picture his downtrodden features and it sickens her stomach.

"You did, dahling," she hastens to assure him,"An' mouh impohtantly, you felt lovely in it an' that's whot counts, not whot some random woman on the intuhnet hos to say about it. You did something so so brave, my love, an'jus'because someone disapproves of it, doesn't mean it was wrong."

Harry sniffles and she can tell she's perked his interest on the other line.

"You've paved the way fouh othuh people now to get to do whot they wish, as well, " she reminds, feeling rather empowered at the knowledge that this loving legend that she's speaking to is from her womb and has spent half his life in her embrace,"Think of how many little boys and gals saw you today an' felt inspiuhed."

He grunted softly,"Hm."

She could tell she was getting through,"Youh such a lovely boy, an' all the mouh manly fouh bein' strong enough to weauh somethin' so unique on the covuh of a magazine the whole wohuld could see. I'm proud an' so should you be."

"Thank you, Mummy," he rasps out quietly, and she squeezes her phone tighter feeling a magnetic pull to be close to her aching child's heart, just then,"I feel a bit bettuh, thank you."

Anne smiles halfway, her dimple, the original blueprint from which Harry's own cavernous ones were designed, embedding itself on her left cheek as she crooks her head,"I love you, dahling, truly, don't be upset now, lie down an' get some rest, you'll feel bettuh."

"Kay, Mummy, I love you s'much, really," he begins to bid his farewell, making certain that she realizes that his heart is genuinely in her hands, before anyone else's, her lap being the one place in the world he can always remember being safe in and his chest aching with a longing to go back home and cuddle her in his fright.

"'Night, baby," she whispers, hearing his bed creaking as he lays down, and she hears the padded thud of his head hitting his pillow,"Sleep tight."

"'Night, Mummy."

He makes no move to hang up, and she doesn't hit the end button, either. It being sort of, implied, that, albeit they're hundreds of miles apart, this is his rendition of her staying with him until he falls asleep. He just doesn't want to feel alone.

She doesn't mind, sits silently, listening to the sounds of his breathing evening out as he glides into his dreams. She can hear the exact moment he is officially unconscious as he's notoriously a snorer, not a loud one, but a funny one. His noises are more akin to that of a purring kitten than that of the normal fright train-like sounds.

He hiccups a bit at the beginning, and she almost wishes they were skyping so that she could see his intricately carved features peacefully retired in his slumber, remembering a time when his tiny little face had been surrounded by a lacy bonnet and a blue onesie wrapped around his miniature body while he dreamt beside her bed in a basket cased bassinet.

She wishes he was as close now, so that she could just turn over in her bed and pull his blanket a bit higher over his shoulders, make sure that he wasn't too cold.

It's with extreme reluctance that she tears herself away from the call, finally pressing the dreaded button and feeling the sort of odd guilt that stresses a parent when they've told their little one that they'd be there till morning, but they leave once the child falls asleep, despite knowing that they'll be so frightened when they wake.

She gazes at his contact photo, it's a small one of him just a few months ago on the sofa with her, his body slumped against her bosom and his eyes closed happily, a smile on his lips as she cradled him from the side in her arms and kissed the top of his chocolate curls, a bit unruly from the period without haircuts in quarantine.

Her eyes mist a bit and she whispers, as if he can, somehow, hear her,"Don't be afraid, dahling."

She bathes in her desire to have her children home, safe and sound with her, a few more moments, before hitting the home button and, instead, clicking into Instagram.

She taps the search bar and types in that distasteful name 'candace owens' and is nauseated by the results her search uncovers. The woman blatantly slanders her son, and hides behind the term "conservatism", though, she has no consideration for the human being in the photo that she's addressing.

Hundreds of people are flying to Harry's aid, verbally, but the dark-haired woman's mouth continues to run like a faucet.

"Seems like a nice enough kid."

That sentence catches Anne's attention as the lady professes to be a fan of her son's music, even as she critiques every ounce of liberty and equality that the man behind those tunes so adamantly campaigns for.

She slams her fingertip into the screen on the blue "Message" button and begins to type, fully enrgaed and awake now.

"Hello, Ms. Owens, I am Anne, Harry Styles' mother......"

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
